


Freely Given

by Devereauxs_Disease



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Galahad is snippy, Knife Throwing, M/M, Poor Arthur, Tristan is a woke knight, Tristan is sensitive, all the other knights would like them to just fucking kiss already, fluff and kisses, lessons on informed consent, one of those, or something, or they just want these two idiots to stop, seriously they ship it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 10:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14518230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devereauxs_Disease/pseuds/Devereauxs_Disease
Summary: Tristan tries to teach Galahad many things, especially the meaning of enthusiastic consent.





	Freely Given

**Author's Note:**

> This was just one of those dumb ideas that was floating around in my head, and I had to get it out. 
> 
> As always, all my love goes to Gwilbers who patiently reads this nonsense and fixes all the mistakes before I subject the rest of you to it. Y'all should thank her.

          Galahad huffed in frustration when Tristan slapped him across the shoulders with his blade.

          “Too slow, pup, you’re looking at where I am, not where I’m headed.”

          Galahad swung hard, snarling when Tristan dodged the blow and smacked at him again, sending the younger knight to the ground.

          “Now you’re throwing a fit, that won’t help you either.”

          “It would help,” Galahad grumbled, throwing his blade in the dirt. “If I didn’t have an old fool talking nonsense at me while I’m trying to train!”

          Tristan frowned, head cocking. “Old?”

          Galahad laughed, delighting that he could land a blow, even if it was only a verbal one. “You’re as grey as your horse! Even Bors has more color than you.”

          Tristan snorted, his lip curling. Galahad smiled, seeing an opening.

          “How old are you Tristan? How many years does one have to live to get those white streaks on your chin?”

          “Maybe he’s got a grey hair for every man he killed?” Gawain stepped between the two men, offering Galahad a hand.

          “Maybe he’s got a grey hair for every bath he’s skipped?” Galahad grinned as he was pulled up, but paused when he saw Gawain’s frown.

          Before he could enquire about Gawain’s warning glance, Galahad felt himself being snatched by the front of his tunic and shaken.

          “I may be old and grey, but I’m wise enough not to taunt a man who can best me,” Tristan growled. He released Galahad, the younger knight stumbling back with wide eyes. “Maybe you’ll learn that one day.”

          Tristan whistled, stomping off toward the woods. His falcon swooped low, buzzing over Galahad’s head before landing on Tristan’s arm. Galahad watched the knight retreat with a frown. It hadn’t been as fun to get the best of Tristan as he hoped.

          “You’ll never win him like that, boy.” Bors laid a heavy hand on Galahad’s shoulder.

          “What?”

          Gawain nodded. “You took it too far, I don’t think he knew you were flirting.”

          “WHAT?”

          “Oh, come off it,” Lancelot looked up from sharpening his blade. “You’ve be swishing your little skirt at him since you came of age.”

          “I DON’T – IT’S NOT A SKIRT!” Galahad pushed at Gawain, who started to snicker.

          “It’s a manly skirt, but it’s a skirt,” Bors offered.

          “It’s a Pteruges! The legion wears them!”

          Bors shrugged, “So a skirt worn by cunts, then.”

          “THIS IS A WARRIOR SKIRT!” Galahad snapped his mouth shut and closed his eyes, waiting for the uproarious laughter.

          Bors didn’t disappoint, caterwauling his amusement to the heavens as Gawain snorted.

          “Manly Roman Legion skirt or not,” Lancelot said, stowing his blade and standing. “It’s Tristan you want lifting it up, yes?”

          “NO!”

          “Really?” Gawain cocked his head. “You’re always flirting with him.”

          “I am not!” Galahad was turning bright red. He may have entertained a few thoughts about the scout when he was alone with his hand, but he’d certainly never…

          “You sure?” Bors tsked. “Shame, poor Tristan.”

          “Poor Tristan?” Galahad felt his chest tighten. “Does Tristan? Has he – Does he – Would he want me-?”

          “To flip your skirt over and offer him a ride?” Bors said. “You’re as ill tempered as the devil bird of his and look how he dotes on that thing.”

          “You’re all mad.”

          “He doesn’t bother training with the rest of us.” Gawain murmured. “He only spars with you. He’s never offered me a bit of advice in my life. You, he’s constantly-”

          “Belittling.” Galahad spat, thinking of Tristan, constantly over his shoulder. When he was younger, he adored the attention. He’d run after Tristan on the training grounds, asking how to hold his bow, the best ways to block an attack, anything he could think of to get the scout to stop and offer him advice. But Tristan never seemed to see Galahad’s improvements, only his failings. By the time he turned eighteen Galahad was the second-best archer in the legion, but Tristan only offered corrections to his stance, not the praise he so desperately wanted. After a few years, Galahad met all of Tristan’s advice with snarls and dismissal; it was easier than admitting how sharply the scout’s disappointment stung.

          “Teaching,” Lancelot laughed. “Do you really think he spends his days trying to hurt your feelings over swords and arrows? He’s trying to keep his favorite pup alive. And all you do is snap at his hands.”

          “That’s not-” Galahad scoffed. He turned to Gawain. “That’s nonsense…isn’t it?”

          “If he didn’t like you, he’d have let you die years ago,” Gawain shrugged. “Don’t you find it odd he’s always at your left in every fight we’ve ever faced?”

          “My weak side.” Galahad felt his cheeks heat. The first time he rode into battle, he’d thrown up before mounting his horse. Tristan had said nothing, but stayed by Galahad’s elbow the whole fight. It had been oddly comforting to know Tristan was only a few steps away, should he need him. The young knight had gotten so used to seeing the scout there, he hadn’t realized it might mean something.

          Galahad flopped on the ground, head in his hands. Tristan didn’t find him lacking. He wasn’t trying to expose Galahad’s weaknesses. He was trying to shore them up – in case… in case a day came where he couldn’t be at Galahad’s left.

          “He also stares at your arse any time you bend over.” Lancelot raised an eyebrow. “But maybe he’s just trying to check the stitching on that warrior skirt of yours.”

          Bors guffawed, his foot bouncing with glee. “You remember that day in August with all the wind? Tristan nearly walked into a tree, he was so focused on that skirt.”

          Galahad looked up, eyes wide.

          Gawain slumped to the ground beside him, nudging the young knight’s shoulder. “But you wouldn’t care about that, would you? Since you’re not trying to win him.”

          “No, I wasn’t.” Galahad’s mouth curled slightly at the corner. “But what if I was?”

          Bors whooped, while Lancelot and Gawain grinned.

* * *

 

          Galahad tested the weight of the blade again. It was well balanced, it should serve him well tonight.

          “Stop staring so, you’ll put him off,” Gawain whispered.

          “You’re sure this isn’t folly?” Galahad twirled the blade in his fingers.

          Gawain scoffed. “When has Tristan ever turned down the chance to throw a blade?”

          “Yes, well, let’s get to it, then.”

          Gawain’s mouth stretched into a cheeky grin. “Anxious are we?”

          Galahad flicked the blade up, pressing it to Gawain’s neck. “Don’t my hands feel steady?”

          Gawain huffed, stepping back. “I hope you’re more amiable when you’re finally bedded.”

          Galahad sneered, but before he could reply he marked Tristan slinking into the tavern. The scout took a seat near the other knights, but made no greeting as he settled in, boots on the table. Vanora was by his side in a flash, placing a dram of ale and an apple by the knight.

          As she passed Galahad, Vanora whispered, “He’s in a rare mood tonight, didn’t even thank me for the apple. You sure about this?”

          Galahad shrugged. He’d worked out the basics of the plan with Lancelot and Gawain. Bors kept insisting he should just wait in the scout’s room, naked as the day he was born, but Galahad had refused that plan on the grounds that Tristan’s bird lived in that room and he refused to be near the vicious thing without at least a tunic to guard his body.

          “Well, good luck to you, lad.” Vanora patted his cheek and moved back to the fires.

          Galahad sighed, he could use luck on his side tonight. Downing the rest of his ale, the young knight cleared his throat. “I’ll wager I’m the best with a blade in this bar!”

          “You can’t even cut the scruff off your chin!” Bors shouted, earning a few laughs.

          “Test me, then! I’ve a prize for any soul who can best me at knife throwing.”

          Gawain, Bors, a few Romans, and one of Vanora’s tavern girls all stepped up for the challenge, but Tristan stayed rooted to his chair. Galahad frowned, but Gawain leaned close as he pretended to aim.

          “Don’t be too good, muck up your stance or something. He’ll be out of his chair in no time.”

          Gawain’s blade landed close to the target, as did one of the Romans. The tavern girl nicked the bullseye and Bors nearly killed the local miller when his blade sailed wide.

          When it was Galahad’s turn, the young knight stood, keeping his stance closed and one leg awkwardly angled. It was a horrible position, but he could still make the shot. He turned to the crowd, making sure to twirl his blade in front of Tristan before throwing it.

          A bullseye.

          “Can no one offer me a challen-” A blade snapped past Galahad’s head notching into the bullseye and knocking Galahad’s knife from the target. The knight turned to glare at Tristan, who raised an eyebrow, his feet still propped up on the table.

          “An even match, then?” Galahad puffed his chest. “Come on, old man, one lucky throw doesn’t make you the victor.”

          Tristan stood, snatching the apple from the table and slowly walking to the target. “How many more times must I best you, boy?”

          “At least one more throw.”

          Tristan shrugged, looking bored as he retrieved his blade. Galahad bent to recover his from the floor, making sure to aim his pteruges at Tristan and wiggle slightly.

          “You think you’ll win the prize?” Galahad raised an eyebrow, twirling the blade in his fingers.

          “What prize are we playing for, pup?” Tristan used his blade to slice into an apple, he never had much need for flash with his blade work.

          Galahad threw the blade, it landed squarely in the center of the target. “If you beat that, I’ll kiss you.”

          Tristan’s lip curled. He threw the blade. It landed in the dirt below the target. The other knights stopped talking. Tristan never missed.

          Never.

          The scout turned, pushing past Bors and Gawain. Galahad’s cheeks stung, prickling with color and hurt.

          “Such a terrible prospect, then?” He snapped at Tristan’s back.

          Fast as a flash, Tristan was in front of Galahad, strong fingers biting into the younger knight’s chin. The scout snarled at Galahad, his amber eyes flickering in the candlelight.

          “A kiss should be freely given, never won or stolen.” Tristan released Galahad, his eyes dropping. “Or used to taunt an old fool. You’d do well to remember that with your barmaids, pup, it’s my final lesson for you.”

          “I wasn’t-” But Tristan had shoved by Lancelot and disappeared into the night. Galahad blinked before he turned to Bors. “I wasn’t-”

          “I know, lad.”

          “But he-”

          “I know, lad.”

          “How do I-”

          “I don’t know, lad.”

          “Aren’t you a help?” Vanora smacked the back of Bors’ head. “Don’t just mumble at the boy, do something!”

          “Like what? If Tristan doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.” Bors shrugged.

          Vanora squinted at her man. “Can you do nothing?”

          Bors thought a moment before yanking Galahad into a hard kiss.

          Galahad spat when he was released. He moved to strike Bors, but Vanora was faster, battering him with a rag.

          The large knight crouched covering his head. “He wanted a kiss and I kissed him! Honestly, woman, there’s no making you happy!”

          “You useless sod! You’ve probably put him off men now!” Vanora chased Bors into the backroom, where the muffed sounds of her scolds and his indignant cries could still be heard.

          “So,” Gawain sidled up to Galahad, who was still rubbing at his mouth. “Was it all you’d dreamed it would be?”

          “You speak one more word to me and I’ll cut off all your pretty hair.”

          Gawain held up his hands in surrender, backing away.

* * *

 

Tristan was shoving things into his saddlebag a little more forcefully than usual. His horse turned, nosing at him. The scout smiled, pausing to rub at the creature’s muzzle.

          “Forgive me, I had a bad night,” He whispered, fingers stroking softly.

          “Tristan!”

          “And my bad luck continues.” The scout knew without looking up who it was. He ignored the pup, focused on readying for his trek to the sea.

          “Tristan!” The boy was running now, curls bouncing in the grey pre-dawn light. How the scout hated those curls. He hated that he saw them catch in the sunlight like burnished wood every night as he slept. He hated that they would waver in the wind as if beckoning him. He hated that he would never know how they felt between his fingers. “Tristan, did you not hear me? I’ve been calling.”

          “And now you’re here.” Tristan was careful to keep the horse between him and the younger knight. He busied his hands checking and re-checking the saddle’s ties.

          Galahad sighed holding up a folded bit of paper. “I have something for you.”

          Tristan sighed. Arthur had changed his orders. The scout had hoped to sulk by the cliffsides and lick his wounds, but his king, as always, had other plans.

          Tristan stepped around the horse, holding out his hand to Galahad. The younger knight paused, causing Tristan’s lip to curl. The scout extended his hand further. “Give it to me.”

          With a smile, Galahad knocked Tristan’s hand aside and crushed their mouths together. The younger knight’s hands fisted in Tristan’s cloak, keeping him anchored. Tristan froze, his mind and body sending panic signals back and forth, trying to determine the best course of action. While the scout remained still, Galahad tilted his head, sucking sweetly at Tristan’s upper lip. When he finally pulled away, Tristan missed the boy immensely, his fingers flexing as he forced himself to stay still.

          “Freely given,” Galahad whispered, running a finger along a grey streak in Tristan’s beard. “And hopefully returned when you get back from the coast.”

          Tristan blinked.

          He blinked again.

          He could taste Galahad when he licked his lips. The scout shook his head. “The _uh_ the orders?”

          “This?” Galahad smiled, holding up the paper. He tossed it to the ground. “I found it in the barracks on my way here…no idea what it says.”

          Tristan cocked his head. The boy had run to the gates before dawn just for him. He opened his mouth again, but Galahad was on him, pressing one more soft kiss against Tristan’s mouth before shoving him away.

          “Go on then,” The young knight made a shooing motion. “Can’t return with my kiss if you never go.”

          Galahad let his hand trace along Tristan’s cheek for a moment. Tristan wondered if he always turned that lovely shade of pink when he was aroused. The younger knight ducked his head, laughing lightly as he fled back into the safety of the barracks.

          Tristan turned, mounting his horse and riding fast out of the gates, a smile plastered on his face.

* * *

 

          “Peace, he’ll return.” Gawain’s hand landed heavy on Galahad’s shoulder. Arthur offered the young knight a small, sympathetic smile from across the round table. Apparently, even kings could feel sorry for silly pining soldiers.

          “I know,” The younger knight mumbled, worrying at his tunic. “Today perhaps.”

          “Thank the gods,” muttered Lancelot. “I was afraid Bors would have to kiss you again.”

          “Bors did what?”

          Galahad nearly toppled from his seat in his haste to turn. Tristan stood in the doorway, brow furrowed, hair wet and dripping from the rain.

          “I didn’t! I mean, I did, but I wasn’t trying to bed him.” Bors frowned. “Vanora made me!”

          “A stolen kiss – a terrible one at that.” Galahad approached his scout, tugging at one of Tristan’s wet braids. “A wise old man once told me they meant nothing.”

          “You should take this time to bid farewell to Vanora and the children,” Tristan was still staring at Bors, who had moved to stand, definitely not cower, behind Arthur.

          “Never mind him,” Galahad grabbed Tristan by his beard and tugged the scout to meet his eyes. “Do you have something for me?”

          “I do,” Tristan leaned forward.

          Galahad closed his eyes, his breath catching in his chest.

          No kiss came.

          Slitting one eye open, Galahad saw Tristan holding up a folded parchment.

          “A map,” Tristan’s mouth was curving at the edges. “Of the terrain between us and the sea. Also, a detailed account of the landing areas should the north men try to invade again.”

          Galahad opened both eyes so he could narrow them in a glare. Tristan’s smile formed more fully, his pointed incisors gleaming in the light.

          “What? It’s important information, do you not want it? I cou-”

          Galahad knocked the paper from Tristan’s hand. “Peace, you old fool, we’ve played this game long enough.”

          Tristan leaned in, whispering _freely given_ before claiming Galahad’s mouth.

          Galahad gasped, the scrape of Tristan’s beard and the light, nipping kisses along his bottom lip sent shivers down his spine. He opened his mouth and was rewarded with a swipe of the scout’s tongue. With a smirk, Tristan pulled back, making Galahad chase his mouth.

          Finally, the younger knight huffed out a frustrated laugh before tangling his hands in Tristan’s braids and dragging the stubborn old fool back to him. This time, they slotted together perfectly, mouths melded as they tasted and teased.

          “This is wonderful news, congratulations are due.” Arthur, Galahad thought, though he couldn’t bring himself to look up from Tristan. “I’ll, uh, I’ll just take the map, then.”

          Tristan moved his thigh between Galahad’s legs and the younger knight groaned into another kiss.

          “Tristan? This, this isn’t a map. It’s, well, it’s a rather crude likeness of Galahad kneeling in front of you- _OH_.” Arthur sounded rather scandalized. Galahad could hear the king moving closer. “There is a map, isn’t there? You didn’t just spend a week drawing this?”

          “Let’s just let them be, eh?” Lancelot, also near, but Tristan was working a hand under Galahad’s pteruges and it took all in the knight not to whimper manfully at the sensation. “I’m sure Tristan drew a map for you.”

          “I needed that map. I was going to plan defenses!”

          “Later, later. How about we go see Vanora, have a few drinks, and I’m sure Tristan will have the map to you in an hour.”

          Tristan grunted, mouth busy and hands still creeping north.

          “Two hours, then.”

          “At least go to your barracks, we eat at this table.”

          “I’ll send Two in to wash it down when they’re done, sire. No worries.”

          “Send One into the woods to fell some trees. I’ll want a new table after this.”

          Galahad was vaguely aware that he and Tristan would have to apologize to their king and fellow knights. But as Tristan’s fingers finally wrapped around their target, Galahad found it didn’t bother him. It would be a price freely given.

         


End file.
